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population, who turned with an oath to look at the strang-
ers clad in English fashion, thought that they were bent on
purchasing dutiable articles for their own fog-ridden coun-
try, and gave them no more than a passing thought.
Marguerite, however, wondered how her husband’s tall,
massive figure could have passed through Calais unob-
served: she marvelled what disguise he assumed to do his
noble work, without exciting too much attention.
Without exchanging more than a few words, Sir Andrew
was leading her right across the town, to the other side
from that where they had landed, and the way towards Cap
Gris Nez. The streets were narrow, tortuous, and mostly
evil-smelling, with a mixture of stale fish and damp cellar
odours. There had been heavy rain here during the storm
last night, and sometimes Marguerite sank ankle-deep in
the mud, for the roads were not lighted save by the occa-
sional glimmer from a lamp inside a house.
But she did not heed any of these petty discomforts: ‘We
may meet Blakeney at the ‘Chat Gris,’’ Sir Andrew had said,
when they landed, and she was walking as if on a carpet of
rose-leaves, for she was going to meet him almost at once.
At last they reached their destination. Sir Andrew evi-
dently knew the road, for he had walked unerringly in the
dark, and had not asked his way from anyone. It was too
dark then for Marguerite to notice the outside aspect of this
house. The ‘Chat Gris,’ as Sir Andrew had called it, was evi-
dently a small wayside inn on the outskirts of Calais, and
on the way to Gris Nez. It lay some little distance from the
coast, for the sound of the sea seemed to come from afar.

The Scarlet Pimpernel